Fall Before You Fly
by ZombifyMe
Summary: Set after 2x11. After his final conversation with Dale, Daryl begins to question who he is as a man, as a survivor. Daryl drabble.


**A/N: **Hey guys! So tonight's episode of _The Walking Dead_ sparked a bit of inspiration for me, it was so intense! It's only a bit of drabble, what I kind of want to happen throughout the rest of the season. Can you believe there are only two episodes left? And then it's a long wait until September who whenever they decide to air season 3. This piece also had a bit of help from a song, the lyrics for which are posted below. Anyways, feedback is always welcome! Let me know what you think of this one.

**Disclaimer: I do not own the brilliance that is _The Walking Dead_, its characters, or its story line. I only own the thoughts displayed.**

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><p><em>Don't wake me up if I'm sleeping this life away<br>__They tell me that I'll never be good enough  
><em>_Sometimes it hurts to think it could really be that way  
><em>_It won't be that way  
><em>_I'm tired and I'm lost  
><em>_I don't want to be found  
><em>_I put my heart and my soul  
><em>_And strength in this now  
><em>_So forgive me 'cause I won't forget that  
><em>_Yeah, this world has changed me  
><em>_So you know when you ask me  
><em>_Who are you now?  
><em>_Did you say what you want?  
><em>_Don't go back to the start  
><em>_I'm asking who are you now?  
><em>_Did they break you apart?  
><em>_Won't you fight back for what you want?_

Daryl laid a kick into the woodpile across from his tent, knocking a log loose. He ignored the throbbing in his foot as he limped around the site he'd set up as his own after Sophia's burial. The night was far from young, but with the night's events there was no way he'd be able to find a wink of sleep. If he did, he'd be plagued by the look in Dale's eyes as he pressed the barrel of that gun to his forehead, how they shone with unshed tears, how, despite the situation, Dale seemed to tell him, "It's okay." Rick hadn't been able to put the poor man out of his misery. Why had Daryl stepped up to the plate? His relationship with Dale was uncertain, the line between friends and enemies a blur. While Daryl had snapped at the man on numerous occasions, brushed him off like he was lower than dirt on his boot, Dale had been nothing but kind to Daryl, even when he was aware of the kind of man Daryl was—or thought he was.

Daryl chewed the side of his thumb as he recalled the day's earlier conversation. Dale had approached him with the imploration that Daryl reconsider putting the survivors' new hostage, Randall, to death. The conversation turned, though, from Randall to Daryl himself.

"Your opinion makes a difference," Dale told him, causing Daryl to momentarily freeze in his movements. He grit his teeth as he straightened and picked up his bow.

"Man, ain't nobody lookin' at me for nothin'," he replied, prepared to end the conversation. He'd never admit it out loud, but hearing Dale tell him that Daryl's opinion mattered lit a small flicker of hope within him, that he might be more than just a hunting source for these people. After Sophia, that hope was doused when no one even paid attention to his efforts. No one but Carol. And even after Sophia's burial Daryl could see that she'd lost hope too. Not just in Daryl but in everything. He could see it in her eyes every time he glanced at her.

"Carol is," Dale shot back, jutting a thumb at the house behind him. "And…and I am right now." Daryl turned back. The tone in Dale's voice almost made Daryl believe him then and there. But that skepticism that lurked constantly in the back of his head hindered that chance. When Daryl once again tried to brush Dale off, he stopped him in his tracks.

"You cared about what happened to Sophia." It wasn't a question, wasn't an unsure statement. Daryl looked down at his feet, blinked, before turning back yet again. Dale, seeing he'd hit some kind of nerve, continued. "Cared what it did to the group." Daryl took a few menacing steps forward, turning over in his head how to deal with someone finally calling him out on his own feelings. Feelings he himself was terrified of. The way he saw it he had three options: deny Dale's accusation to hell, admit it, or sock Dale right in his smug face.

"Torturing people? That isn't you…"

As if you knew just who I am, Daryl thought darkly. Dale's next words, though, hit Daryl like a kick to the stomach.

"You're a decent man."

They were the words Daryl had been waiting to hear ever since he was a teenager. Now that they were finally said to his face, he had no idea how to process them. For years he was waiting for someone to assure him that he wouldn't grow up to be an abusive son of a bitch like his dad or a bigoted asshole like Merle. For years he tried to convince himself that there was decency inside him, that he could bring himself to care for other people than just his brother (and even that was a bit iffy). Merle had practically raised him, yes, when it came down to it, did Daryl actually care about his brother? The possibility of Merle's being alive had slowly slipped from his mind after the incident at the CDC. Did that mean he stopped caring? If it did, was he automatically a bad person? In this new world, good and bad were defined by a line more blurry than that between friends and enemies.

Daryl gave a quick shake of his head as the memory faded. That was just this afternoon. Had it really been so long ago? It seemed like days since he'd spoken with Dale. Maybe it was the events of the night that had stretched everything out, made it seem like Dale's death happened last week.

Dale's death. Dale was…gone. In every sense of the word. Who would drive his Winnebago if the Atlanta survivors left the Greene farm? How was Andrea feeling about this? Why did Daryl suddenly care? Another thought occurred to him. His caring for the group didn't happen suddenly; it wasn't brought on by the night's events. As Daryl sat by his fire, alone in the dark, he realized that, all along, he cared for these people. They'd become somewhat of a fucked-up family the past month or so. A sense of caring he didn't know he had in him had sprouted deep within, growing and flourishing until Daryl thought he might keel over from its strength. How or when it started, Daryl wasn't sure. All he knew was that it had, and he could lie through his teeth to everyone and himself, deny it until he burst, but he knew that it was true. Was this what Dale wanted? For him to see that he had…humanity in him? Was this an unspoken dying wish? If it was, could Daryl fulfill it? Or would he fail?

All his life Daryl questioned who he was, what he meant to other people. To his drunken father, he was a punching bag and a soccer ball. To Merle, he was someone who was easy to control, to manipulate, to taint. To a lot of people, Daryl was an inconsiderate asshole, someone to be feared and despised. But that wasn't who Daryl truly was, and he knew that now. Maybe now, with Dale's message still in his head, he could figure out who he was meant to be. He wasn't positive he'd jump the ranks to be Rick's second-in-command, even after Daryl took the gun from his hand, but he was sure that he would find a more permanent place in the group.

He glanced up at the blackened sky, sprinkled with billions of twinkling stars. He wondered if there was a heaven, and if it existed, was Dale there now? _Don't be stupid_, he chided, _Dale was a good man. Of course he made it to heaven._ Would Daryl meet the same fate? If he died, would he make it to St. Peter's gate? Or would he drop straight into hell? Nothing about him as a person screamed he was good enough. Or was that Merle's influence talking?

"Dammit, Dale," he murmured as he jabbed at the smolders with a stick. "Look'it what ya did. But man, I think you're right. But what am I s'posed to do now?" He stared expectantly at the stars, as if they themselves held the answer right in front of his nose. But they only twinkled, and Daryl glared down at the dying flames.

He knew sleep would be impossible, but if he stayed awake he'd have to concentrate on keeping these thoughts at bay. Thoughts of doubt, of faith. Thoughts questioning his every move, his very being. Who was he? Was he Merle Dixon's punk younger brother? Or was he something a bit more valuable?

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><p><strong>Titlelyric credit: **_Who Are You Now_ by Sleeping With Sirens (this song just screams DARYL)


End file.
